The Quest for the Trilogy: Boneslicer; Seaspray; Deathwhisper

by Mel Odom

  Craugh looked at him oddly. “Are you all right?”

  At the moment, I appear to be. Wick tried to speak, found he couldn’t, and settled for nodding.

  “Then we need to get going.”

  We? Wick blinked.

  Quarrel and Bulokk both climbed to the pier behind the wizard. Bulokk’s dwarven warriors stood to one side and closely watched Craugh. Wick had the distinct feeling that if Craugh had tried to harm him they would have interfered. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, he told himself. It’s not like they could actually stop Craugh.

  “The Library,” Craugh said. He scowled. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about it.”

  “N-n-n-nooooo,” Wick said, sliding a foot out and taking a step away in case this was some kind of weird, cruel trick.

  “Then let’s be about it.” Craugh strode past Wick toward the nearest livery that had rental wagons and horses.

  Bulokk and his dwarven warriors followed. All of them gawked at the city, especially at the signs that adorned every building in Greydawn Moors. All the dweller shop owners and craftsmen advertised, and signs got bigger when two shops were in direct competition with each other. Of course, the advertising was wasted on the dwarves because they couldn’t read.

  Quarrel could, though. As could the cat. They went forward, too, following in Craugh’s wake, which was wide because no one in Greydawn Moors who knew him wanted anything to do with him.

  Alysta paused and looked back over her shoulder. Her tail twitched in irritation. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Yes.” Wick answered before he really thought about it. He considered what was about to take place: Craugh in the Library. When Grandmagister Ludaan had been in charge of the Vault of All Known Knowledge, Craugh’s presence there had almost been a regular thing.

  But not since Frollo had become Grandmagister. The two of them couldn’t tolerate the sight of each other. When Craugh wanted to meet with Wick, he usually sent word to the Vault of All Known Knowledge.

  Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, Wick thought as he trudged after them.

  “Are you nervous?” Quarrel asked when he’d caught up to her.

  “About what?” Wick asked.

  She looked at him, her blue eyes filled with bewilderment. “‘About what?’ Craugh, for one. Sokadir for another. There’s any number of things to be nervous about.”

  Wick sighed. “I know. I am.”

  “Well, take heart, Librarian Lamplighter.”

  Unbelievably, Wick’s spirits soared just a little. It was the first time Quarrel had addressed him by his title.

  “Cap’n Farok told us all that if there was anyone who could get to the bottom of this mess, it was you. He said that’s why Craugh sent for you instead of coming himself or sending another.” Quarrel looked at him. “The captain said you have a knack for puzzles, whether they’re in words, mazes in lost treasure rooms, or … people.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “After all, you found Seaspray when no one else could.”

  But I’ve been wrong about things before, too. Wick tried not to think about that. Besides, curiosity was thrumming through him. The answers had to be there somewhere.

  5

  Vidrenium

  Wick rode in the back of the wagon as they went up the long, twisting trail to the Vault of All Known Knowledge. The Great Library’s dark gray towers only stood out against the dark gray Knucklebones Mountains when a trained eye knew where to look. Nestled just above the Ogre’s Fingers (it was still whispered that the Builders had made the mountains from two gigantic beings locked in combat, and that their feet anchored the island to the sea floor, though no one had ever discovered the truth of that), the structure was protected by a high wall of the same dark gray stone. Only the Ogre’s Fingers held any color, and they were threaded with rust-red iron veins.

  “This is so … beautiful.” Quarrel gazed around in open astonishment. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  That was because she’d grown up around Wharf Rat’s Warren, in the cold northlands off the Frozen Sea. Precious little had grown there that flowered or bore fruit.

  “It is,” Wick agreed. “I never really knew it till I left.”

  “If I lived here, I don’t think I would ever leave.”

  “Not even to get your ancestor’s sword?”

  Some of the joy left her face, and Wick felt badly about that.

  “I have to,” she replied. “That sword is important to my family.”

  “I know,” Wick said, hoping that he could truly help her find Seaspray and help Bulokk once more take possession of Boneslicer.

  And find the name of the true traitor that day at the Battle of Fell’s Keep. Wick took a deep breath that made him push all of the various pressures away. Grandmagister Ludaan had taught him to whittle down a problem, to divide it into its separate components, and conquer each area of contention.

  At the moment, he couldn’t even consider the problem. He needed more background information. He’d been running willy-nilly across the countryside trying to follow Craugh’s plans. If recovering the weapons had merely been a battle, the wizard’s judgment probably would have carried the day.

  But this wasn’t a military strategist’s problem. It was a Librarian’s.

  Even as he’d calmed himself during the final leg of the journey up to the Vault of All Known Knowledge, Wick discovered he faced yet another problem.

  As always, dwarven guards stood post in front of the main entrance to the Library’s inner courtyard. Wick recognized Varrowyn Forgeborn, their leader, instantly.

  The dwarf was one of the most loyal and experienced warriors Wick had ever had the pleasure of meeting. His armor was polished and he held his battle-axe in one big hand.

  “Greetings,” Varrowyn said in his booming voice.

  “Greetings,” Craugh replied.

  Varrowyn walked around the wagon filled with dwarves and Quarrel and Alysta. “Brung visitors, did ye, Second Level Librarian Lamplighter?” Strolling casually, he walked around the wagon.

  “I did,” Wick answered, standing. “They’re all friends.”

  “That’s good.” Varrowyn smiled, showing his teeth, but even that could be construed as threatening. “We’re a friendly lot here. Craugh, it’s good to see that the wolves ain’t pulled ye down while ye were out amongst ’em.”

  “Thank you, Varrowyn.” Craugh sat quietly. He’d always gotten on well with the dwarves.

  “I take it the Grandmagister ain’t expectin’ ye.” Varrowyn stepped in front of the wagon again and raised his battle-axe to signal his men. Immediately they started raising the iron-bound gate, which clanked and banged against the runners as it rose.

  “No,” Wick replied.

  “We’re here on a private matter,” Craugh said.

  “A research project,” Wick added.

  “Hmmmm.” Varrowyn eyed Wick speculatively. “The Grandmagister’s been looking for ye.”

  A sick pit opened up in Wick’s stomach. All I need is the Grandmagister upset with me. He spent a large part of some of his days trying to escape Grandmagister Frollo’s attentions. Frollo tended to be uncomplimentary and demanding, and he never forgot when someone made a mistake. In those respects, he wasn’t much like Grandmagister Ludaan.

  “Apparently he didn’t know ye was with Craugh,” Varrowyn went on.

  “I didn’t know I was going to be with Craugh,” Wick replied.

  “I thought as much.” Varrowyn nodded. “I tracked ye to Paunsel’s Tavern the last time anybody seen ye. Was told ye was in the company of Craugh and Hallekk. Figured it likely ye went with One-Eyed Peggie when she filled her sails that night. Told the Grandmagister that as well, but he was about ready to order out the guard to search for ye. He muttered somethin’ about postin’ Librarians to keep watch over Hralbomm’s Wing, that ye’d be along soon enough to get another one of them books.”

  “I see.”

  “Want me to send a runner to fetch the
Grandmagister an’ let him know ye’ve returned?” Varrowyn offered.

  “No,” Wick said weakly. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you.” He slumped back into the wagon bed and resumed his seat on the bag of potatoes that he’d used as a chair. I’m doomed. If Craugh doesn’t toadify me, the Grandmagister will have me scrubbing kitchens and bathrooms. Or copying books of dwarven love songs.

  Wick guided everyone into the main building through the back door, stopping off at the kitchens long enough to raid the pantry. He took supplies to make bacon and tomato sandwiches, then loaded up Bulokk’s warriors with strawberry, firepear, and pecan pies. No one in the Library went hungry. He also added some cakes and two jars of chozelak jelly, and loaves of wheat, pumpkin, and corn bread. Four jugs of razalistynberry wine finished off the provender.

  Then he guided his party to one of the little-used side rooms off Hralbomm’s Wing. Few Librarians visited Hralbomm’s Wing because most didn’t share Wick’s love of the romances; and the ones who did, feared Grandmagister Frollo’s scalding tongue.

  While Quarrel, Alysta, and the dwarves agreed to stay in the room, Craugh insisted on accompanying Wick. That made the little Librarian nervous as he hurried through the hallways and rooms of the Vault of All Known Knowledge. Added to that, he knew he stuck out in his clothing of breeches and shirt instead of his robe. He didn’t look like a proper Librarian.

  Still, the Librarians recognized him.

  “Hello, Second Level Librarian Lamplighter,” a Novice said. He was burdened with a dozen thick books that he barely managed.

  “Hello, Grental,” Wick responded. As he passed the Novice, he reached out and adjusted the top book, making them all more secure. “You should really carry those books in two trips.”

  “I thought one would—”

  “Save time?” Wick asked hurriedly. “Not if you trip and drop them and rip the binding loose. Repairing a binding—”

  At that moment, Grental did misstep. The sound of torn bindings echoed in the hallway.

  Sighing, not breaking stride, Wick shook his head and forced himself not to look back to see how bad the damage was. Thank the Old Ones those were reference volumes we have several copies of. “I heard that, Novice. I read the titles of all those books. I expect them to be repaired. I’ll be checking.”

  “Yes, Second Level Librarian Lamplighter,” the Novice replied in a dispirited voice. “Did you know that the Grandmagister was looking for you?”

  “Yes, I did.” Wick hurried on.

  Lanterns filled with lummin juice blazed blue-white in the hallways and in the rooms. The Vault of All Known Knowledge was a hodge-podge, and most would have sworn it held no rhyme or reason in its design. Four stories existed aboveground, and others were carved into the strata beneath the Library, making a honeycomb of a large section of the Knucklebones Mountains. A river separated two halves of the underground floors. Sometimes a lower floor had to be gotten to by ascending two flights of stairs only to descend three others.

  There were proper maps made of the various floors and rooms, but only the more experienced Novices were allowed to carry them around. Managing a map meant not having hands free to carry as many books as a Librarian could.

  The hallways of the underground were carved through the rock but held the same arch shape as the blocks that had been laid above had created. It was darker in the lower recesses with the absence of light, and it was a lot cooler. Dressed only in a shirt and breeches, Wick found himself growing cold.

  As he walked, Wick listened to Craugh’s measured stride behind him. No matter that he was moving nearly at full speed, Craugh paced him easily.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Craugh finally demanded.

  “Yes,” Wick answered.

  “It doesn’t seem so.”

  Risking a look back over his shoulder, Wick saw a trace of concern showing on the wizard’s face. Is he worried that we’ll get lost down here? It had happened in the past. Sometimes only for hours, but sometimes for days. The Library was immense. That was why new Novices were never allowed to wander on their own, and why those somewhat skilled packed their pockets with food and a small waterskin while they walked.

  “I know where I’m going,” Wick said.

  Craugh frowned but said nothing.

  Two rooms farther ahead, Wick darted through the doorway. He walked among the shelves, trailing a hand across the spines of the books.

  “What is this place?” Craugh asked.

  “Military biographies of the Silverleaves Glen elves,” Wick answered. “Some of them were from the Laceleaves Glen area and some of the smaller sprawls located in that area.” He took down a book. “This is the journal of Captain Beetalmir, who was second-in-command at the War of the Twisted Snake.” He held up the tome he’d kept for himself. “This is General Koffar’s journal. He commanded the opposing army from the Dewy Rose sprawl.”

  “Why do you want to know about these two men?”

  “Not these men,” Wick explained. “The war. The War of the Twisted Snake. Sokadir and Deathwhisper played a major part in the outcome of that confrontation. Beetalmir and Koffar were two of the most literate writers of the time. Ones who had an eye for detail. They’ll tell us things we need to know about Sokadir.”

  “There have to be biographies here on Sokadir.”

  “There are. But you can’t always trust a biography. No matter who the person, no matter who the writer, I’ve found nearly every biography I’ve read to be slanted either for or against the subject.” Wick paused, organizing his thoughts. “We need to isolate facts and check them.”

  “Why?”

  Overcome by his own curiosity, Wick forgot his fear and discomfort with Craugh. “Think about it. We contacted Sokadir—by accident, to be sure, but contacted nonetheless—and he came at me. I have to ask myself why.”

  “He doesn’t want to be bothered.”

  “He knew someone was looking for him.”

  “I was looking for him. Before I gave up and came to Greydawn Moors.”

  Wick remembered the haunted look in the elven hero’s eyes. “There’s something more here. Something we don’t know about.” He opened the book and began reading.

  Craugh stood in frozen silence for a moment, then Wick dismissed the wizard from his mind. He had a mystery to solve.

  Hours later, through a hundred books and a half dozen rooms, Wick got a glimmer of what they were ultimately after.

  “The weapons,” he said.

  Craugh looked up from the book he was currently perusing. “What about them?”

  “Do you know who made them?”

  “According to legend, Master Blacksmith Oskarr made his. The others I don’t know about.”

  Wick crossed to the wizard to show him the picture he’d found. “Look.”

  In the picture, a dwarf was being handed a glowing rock by a merman. The dwarf stood hip-deep in the water. The merman remained in the water, but his tail was flipped up to show above the waterline.

  “What’s this?” Craugh asked.

  “It’s where the metal came from,” Wick answered. “The merpeople found a glowing rock at the bottom of the sea and offered it in trade to a dwarven blacksmith in the Clanging Reefs.”

  “‘The Clanging Reefs’?”

  “It’s the merpeople’s name for the Cinder Clouds Islands.” Wick turned the page and showed Craugh a series of maps. “I don’t have a book with me, but if I did you could see that the coastline correlates to—”

  “The Rusting Sea,” Craugh mused, interested now. “I see that. But what does it mean? Is this Master Oskarr?” He glanced at the script on the opposite page. “I can’t read this.”

  “I can. It doesn’t say who the dwarf is, though. But look here.” Wick pointed at a symbol inscribed on the dwarven blacksmith’s chest plate. The symbol showed a dwarven hammer striking an anvil and flames shooting off the blow. “Do you recognize this symbol?”

  “Yes. That belongs to the Cind
er Clouds Islands dwarves.”

  “More than that,” Wick said. “It belongs to Master Oskarr’s family.”

  Craugh peered more closely at the dwarf in the picture. “Is this Master Oskarr?”

  “No. The time period is wrong. This was illustrated hundreds of years before Master Oskarr was born. There’s a possibility the tale was old even before it was written down.”

  “Who’s the dwarf in the illustration?”

  Wick shook his head. “I don’t know.” He shifted books to one of those he’d brought from an earlier room. “Here’s an entry by Naggal, one of Master Oskarr’s apprentices.”

  “It says the book is by Master Oskarr.”

  “It wasn’t. A lot of masters passed their writing off onto junior apprentices. They didn’t have time to do the work themselves but it needed to be done. So they assigned it to someone.”

  “And later claimed the work as their own?”

  “Technically, the work was theirs,” Wick said. “The writing wasn’t, of course, but they claimed the writing of manuals based on their work as well.”

  “Even so, what does this tell us?”

  “Well, where the metal came from, for one.” Wick held up the second book. “But this tells us that all three weapons—Boneslicer, Seaspray, and Deathwhisper—all came from the same source. That glowing rock you saw in the other picture. And from the same master hand as the others.” He flipped through the pages and showed Master Oskarr working at his forge. “‘From the remains of the fallen star—’”

  “‘Fallen star’?” Craugh repeated.

  “It’s a rough approximation from the mer tongue.”

  “All right.”

  “‘From the remains of the fallen star my ancestor traded the merpeople for, I made three items,’” Wick read. “‘For the first time, I didn’t plan out those weapons ahead of time. The ore called to me in a way I had never known. Of course, I fashioned an axe first. I’m a dwarf, after all, and my own nature will override anything else I’m confronted with.’”